


The Last Song of Eru

by FaceFirstInYggdrasil



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Disregards Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, Easterlings, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Gen, Greenwood elves are just here to have a good time, I'm Sorry Tolkien, Im trying my best, Language Barrier, Latin, Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, Lothlorien elves are orthodox equivalent, Minor Character Death, Modern Character in Middle Earth, Omniscient Interludes, Original Poetry - Freeform, POC Original Character - Freeform, POV Original Female Character, Rivendell elves are moderate, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2020-10-27 17:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20764289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceFirstInYggdrasil/pseuds/FaceFirstInYggdrasil
Summary: Juno Pryor has a choice; she has no idea what it is, or that she even has to make one, but it's important.  On her journey she will learn about herself, about humanity, and about the fragility of the elves. Every step forward is full of friendship, laughter, awkward situations, and purpose. And acclimating to a pre-industrial civilization.





	1. I walked through, and saw

“Just a few more miles. This trail has got to end at some point.” I huff, exasperated. Deep down I’m acutely aware of the fact that trails could go on for more than a marathon’s length. I’ve ran such trails before, all through the swamps of Florida. This particular trail was a favorite of mine and my team’s, back when I actively ran cross country. Now, it was a sweet nostalgic spot that served great memories and physical exhaustion.

It begins with a prickling on the back of my neck. That odd and hardly describable feeling of something being wrong. I look around me, darting my head. There are no gator tracks to be seen, and I can no longer smell the dull muggy dampness of the swamp. The mosquitos seemed to have calmed as well, and while I normally can’t feel their bites until after I finish running and let the blood cool under my skin, I am acutely aware of the absence of welts on my thighs and calves.

I stutter in my pace. I shake my head quickly becoming dizzy and disorienting myself. ‘Is it disorienting if I’m already disoriented?’ I ask myself in an odd mix of bitterness and frenzy. I cannot tell which way is the main road, I cannot tell which way is north; my keychain compass is spinning and I feel the bile rise in my throat. Where am I?

I think through all possibilities. My keys glint at me, taunting me. Where has magnetic north gone? Did the pole shift finally happen? Is the world going to end?

The sun is fast setting and the air begins to chill. The stars are _wrong_. They seem closer, almost, like if I could reach up just a bit, I could brush against the moon with the tips of my fingers. The swirling galaxy pattern of the smattering of light in the sky is just visible, and the clarity jars me. I have never seen such detail in person, only in data reductions from telescopes on remote corners of Earth. Yet, despite the beauty I am still afraid.

Where is Orion? The Big Dipper? Cassiopea? Bootes? Polaris is nowhere to be seen and my observations leave me standing still and panicking. The Earth, on it’s 23.5 degree tilted axis, on its ecliptic, with its tides and its orbital period, is _wrong_.

I have to move. The birds echo endlessly in my ears and the blood rushes faster and faster in pace with my breath. I cannot move.

I glance at my compass again. Magnetic north _does not exist_. The Earth is not below me. I do not know what is below me. There is no axis, no sun, no stars of mine, nor is that moon my own. I do not know how long I stand but I do know that I fall, and when I look upwards the world is still wrong. So subtly, terrifyingly wrong. Where are the gators? The mosquitos? The lingering acridness in the air that follows humans wherever they go? Where am I?

_I’m going to die here_.

* * *

The world is still wrong.

I’m on my last energy bar, and the sun still rises in the east and sets the west. But it isn’t my sun. My sun is a beautiful main sequence yellow star. This is an imposter. A beautiful one nonetheless.

My damp dry-fit shorts and short-sleeve don’t do much to improve my sense of impending doom either. I think of all the things that can kill me simply by virtue of my inferior physiology: hypothermia, hunger, thirst. Never mind the countless nasty things that lurk in the woods: bears, wolves, large birds of prey. I am no survivor, at least not of the land. I can slum it with the best of them in heated basements of ritzy high-rises, but throw me into a world full of beautiful skies and greenery for miles and I’m a goner.

I know that the constant walking and lack of protein is going to cause some series atrophy at some point. I can’t afford to think about that. I can’t hunt, I can’t fish, and I don’t know what berries are poisonous and which aren’t. I do not have shelter, and if it rains the chances of me dying from exposure skyrocket. All I have is a small pack on my back with water, tampons, hand sanitizer, and energy chews. What I need is civilization.

I wonder how I didn’t die during my first night in this horrid world. Left out in the open, dissociated to high hell and left to rot in an oblivious sleep. These episodes happen at the worst time, and I lament the fact that no amount of breathing or yoga seems to help. I have no friends here to lead me onward and help me through, and I can’t afford to take such a chance again. I have to be more careful.

If I was to estimate, I’ve walked about 10 miles. I can feel the blisters taking refuge on my tired feet and I wince in anticipation of long hard days to come. Hopefully the calluses I build now make my journey a bit easier. My thighs are strong in their conditioning and abuse, but my butt isn’t used to such long distance treks, and I can feel it quivering in exhaustion.

‘Is that smoke?’ My reverie is broken by the smell of something rank, yet not. It is welcome, it is assuring, it is _people_. I break into a run. My calves are tight with use, my hip flexors scream in warning. If I keep this pace I will be in pain, but I am already in pain. I promised myself I would exist out of spite to the universe (albeit I was 16 and angry at the world), and exist I will. This may not be my Earth, but it is still the same universe I despise (at least I hope).

Close and closer I come to the smell. The trees thin, and for a brief moment I wish I knew what kind of trees they were. I had never cared for biology. ‘_Focus_.’ I look to the smoke once more and I realize I am very close.

These are people who terrify me. They are human, like me, yet they speak a language I do not know and they are filthy and coarse in their manners. The streets are paved with horse and human shit. Children run about dressed in piecemeal clothes that wreak of poverty and trial beyond anything I am familiar with. I sense no joy in the women who mill about with wicker baskets full of linen and chores of the early morning. This is a land of only hardship and duty.

The men stare at me as I pass by, eyes lingering upon my modest breasts and dirt streaked legs. I struggle with the urge to cover my face with my hands and simultaneously cross my arms over my chest. I must look like an absolute whore to them in this medieval culture. The woman who can spare a glance from their work do so curiously. Those who can spare more than a glance take in my unusual appearance. I may as well have been walking through the center of the straw lined street with a spot light.

I stop in front of what I hope is an inn. It’s got a dangling sign with a poorly painted animal of some kind, and it’s two stories full of chatter and the smell of life. I enter behind a matronly woman who spares a smile at me. I smile slightly back and she takes it as invitation to start a conversation. I have no idea what she’s trying to ask me, but I take a shot in the dark as the cadence sounds vaguely familiar.

“Juno. Juuu-noooo.” I point to myself exaggeratedly, hoping to God that I answered her question. Her answering show of teeth cause me to let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. Mimicking me she points to herself and annunciates slowly, “All-drid”.

A man then brushes his way past me and sneers in my direction. I think whatever he says means ‘whore’ or ‘bitch’, or some manner of derogatory name for a female. The language may be different, but some sentiments are universal. Hastily I move out of the walk way next to Aldrid. The inn is crowded and smelly, but she seems familiar. Hopefully this is my chance to get a meal and place to sleep, although I have no idea what the currency is here.

She walks up a rickety flight of stairs and beckons me into an equally drab room. There is a bed and wardrobe on one side and a small basin the corner with clean looking water and block of something unpleasant looking. Aldrid, after a few moments of rustling in a closet, turns to me with a bundle in her hands and says something that is so alien in its cadence my confusion was impossible to hide. She points to the bundle and the basin in the corner with a smile and then bustles out the door. Quickly I peel off my filthy clothes and pack and step into the basin. The water is cool and I can’t help but shiver as I scrub the caked mud off of my shins.

I examine the lump of unpleasantness. I think it’s soap, so I sniff it closely. It has no smell, but instead a grainy texture that I have a feeling will exfoliate the skin. I run the bar harshly over my stomach and neck, and while it feels a bit unpleasant, I feel much cleaner.

I finish scrubbing and rinsing relatively quick, just using water to clean the muck from my hair, and begin to figure out the clothing Aldrid has given me. There are too many laces and ties, and the color is faded and drab. I feel as though the world around me has been dipped into a dulling filter and nothing has any vibrance anymore, especially in the inn.

I think the more sheer layer is an under thing of some sort, with a band sewn into the breast area and the general shiftiness of it. The second layer seems to be a nightdress. They come down to my shins and the nightdress hold absolutely no form on me. I look like a sack of potatoes.

With meticulous timing Aldrd knocks briefly and without waiting for an answer enters the room. She looks at me and nods, saying something that I don’t understand. I just smile tiredly as she moves behind me and sits on the bed. She tugs me downward and soon I am sitting between her legs as she tugs and detangles my hair. It reminds me of my mother, and I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the sudden intense burst of anxiety and fear.

She sings something while I weep, and it is the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. I feel as though I have come home, that I walk with an unknown strength, that I can overcome this new place and thrive. There is a tingle on my skin that I chalk up to wariness and exhaustion. I understand the meaning of the song and the hope it conveys despite the alien language, and while a part of me is dully alarmed, I can’t seem to truly care. I refuse to look the horse in its mouth and instead complacently let Aldrid braid my hair and lull me to sleep.

I don’t remember drifting off between the legs of a strange woman in a strange land, but I awake to the brightening blue of a sky just before dawn through rickety shutters. There’s a sharp rap on my door.

“Coming!” I hop out of my bed and make my way to the door, but Aldrid has already entered with a new bundle of clothes. She smiles at me and gestures, so I smile and grab the clothes with a quick thank you. She still stands there though, and I now look confused. I gesture to the clothes, and she nods, turning around to give me some semblance of privacy.

Throwing whatever modesty I had left to the wind, I shuck off my nightdress and unfold the foreign tan dress. It has more laces and ties than the nightdress, but the waist is taken in and there is a band below the breast that looks as if it is supposed to be tied tight to emphasize my chest. Unlike the nightdress it comes down to my ankles and the loose sleeves stop at my wrists. It isn’t exactly easy to put on, but I manage well enough.

Aldrid nods at my appearance and then gestures to the shoes she brought me. They’re simple things made out of some kind of hide with laces going up to the bottom of my calves. It takes me five minutes to get them on and laced properly with Aldrid’s help, but in the end I look like a local. Albeit a brown one.

She leads me to a kitchen where she is greeted amiably by all working. The workers look at me with blatant curiosity. They are all unkept in some manner, whether it be five o’clock shadows or frizzy braids (much like mine), or the younger looking ones with dirty faces and bright smiles. I don’t feel any hostility, but I do feel my otherness. I look down at myself. I am wearing the same clothes, my hair is done similarly. I look back up and shamelessly scrutinize the workers.

There are baskets of breads and platters of jams and butter being rushed this way and that by pretty serving girls and young pretty serving boys. They rush into an out of the kitchen area shouting what I can only assume to be orders and the three cooks take action with each call. I also notice that there is not a single person of color in the room. I am strange and alone in my tan-ness, and now I am acutely aware. I see every little glance and shuffle, hear every odd whisper, but I’ve been in similar situations before and resolve to just giving a small smile and try not to look sick with discomfort.

Aldrid points to an apron laying upon a barrel near her left and I grab it and tie it on. Four years in food service prepared me well for Mc Donalds or IHOP, but not a renaissance fair cookery. Nodding her head approvingly she leads me to what I can only assume is a prep station.

There are various knives and blocks of wood and a carcass of meat. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s a deer. I point to it and say so, and Aldrid gives me a bland smile. It’s a deer. I have never cooked anything other than prepacked chicken in my life so I stare at her in disbelief. She smiles and nods her head toward the deer; her meaning is clear. I shake my head, gesturing with a lone knife that had been laying about unsheathed that I had absolutely no idea what to do.

Aldrid looks at me again. She points to the deer. She says a word. I repeat her. I think we are saying ‘deer’. She nods at me. I point to the animal, “deer?” I question. She nods, and voices her affirmation. “Yes.” We’re off to a good start, I suppose. She takes the knife and begins to hack bits of meat off. I notice that what could have been considered good cuts of meat had already been taken off, and I suppose that I’m just taking off the last bits. Maybe for a soup or something. The thought makes my stomach growl. Now if only I knew when I would get to eat.

* * *

I peel off my bloody apron and sigh as I feel the wetness of my dress graze my stomach. I knew that animals were full of blood, but I didn’t know how much. The tub of water in the corner of my shoebox room looked more inviting than words could describe, but its disappointing length and width meant I would have to content myself with taking a disappointing bird bath. Again.

The raggedy clothing Aldrid had given me before the night was over on the corner of the bed, and I strip down without thought. But now I have to pee. I’m naked in a dingy room with no windows in the middle of a foreign land with foreigners who speak a foreign language on a foreign planet, and I have to pee. The food is horrible bread with odd looking porridge two times a day, and I’m so hungry. My vision tunnels on a small dirty looking pot in the far corner of the room.

The inn is silent. My stomach growls.

I begin to cry.

The following weeks are similar. I wake from an uneasy sleep to a familiar yet unfamiliar star rising in the east drowning out the not-whippoorwills and not-larks. I grimace as I run my tongue over my teeth and feel the grit and buildup of sleep and days without brushing. I idly think that I need to find a way to fix that.

I put on Aldrid’s hand-me-downs from the small chest at the foot of the bed. They are much too large, made for someone blessed in the chest and hip department. I try to salvage the look, cinching my waist tightly with a belt she left. I suppose it doesn’t look bad, but I also suppose it’s too much to ask for these people to have discovered the mirror.

I hurry into the kitchens, and dawn begins to break more clearly. The room is bustling with life, and now that I am a more of a familiar sight not a single person spares me much of a glance.

Aldrid spots me and beckons me over, “Juno!” She’s at the prep station again. This time, there is only a crate of peppers and onions before her instead of the normal carcass that I struggle to butcher. I am instantly relived; finally a thing I am familiar with. I give her a bright smile and greet her. “Hello Aldrid.” She points to the pepper and onion and annunciates them slowly. I copy her. She smiles. It’s a familiar cycle. Then she says what I can only assume means “Grab a knife.” As I only know the word for knife and she’s pointing at the knife block. Context clues have become my saving grace.

I sit with a group of woman my own age, around 19 or so, to break fast as they say. They don’t talk to me much, with the language barrier and all, but they smile and remain at ease in my presence. Perhaps they aren’t that unused to foreigners? I guess I won’t know until I finish learning the language, so I sit up and attentive throughout their conversation, hoping to learn something, anything at all. It’s slow going but I think I’ve leaned the word for ‘handsome’.

The porridge is beyond bland, and I long for the saltiness of bacon and over medium eggs. I swirl the gruel slowly, knowing that if I don’t eat it, I’ll be laying awake in bed later not just crying, but curling in on my cannibalizing stomach. These long couple of weeks haven’t done anything to dull my longing to go home. I miss my mother and father and I miss my friends. I miss school, and even my coworkers.

The sound of the inn fades slowly into the background whoosh of my heartbeat and circulatory system. I can hardly hear the other girls. It’s happening again, and I cannot stop it _again_. In the distance I hear Aldrid call for us to get back to work with her benevolent smile and pleasant disposition. I am grateful for her generosity and her willingness to take in stranger with no concept of the common language, but I can’t help but wonder when that generosity will run out. It’s bound to fall through when she realizes what’s wrong with me. When the mood swings and thousand yard stares freak someone out _just enough_.

I can’t quite register my surroundings. I know that there’s a knife in my hand, that there’s still a crate of onions to be cut. I know I am picking them up, chopping of the ends, taking of the peel and chop chop chopping away. I know Aldrid is talking to me. I cannot answer. She walks away, and I still cannot speak. The hustle and bustle of the kitchen flows onward and I dimly hear orders being called out. I am not aware how long I stand at that station, but can only measure time in 6 crates of onions and peppers. Aldrid stands in the corner, and I am suddenly aware of the lack of people. I stand still, looking at her blankly. A small corner of my mind is weeping from my inability to move and talk.

‘Time to be human, let’s go girl. Kick it in gear. Say something, open your goddamn mouth a speak!’

_‘I can’t.’_

Aldrid gives me that kind smile once more. It’s full of understanding and motherliness and it’s enough to make me break. For the first time since I arrived here, I let myself truly _cry_. I still cannot speak, but she doesn’t need words to understand me. She holds my weight, and my taller frame ensconces her, yet it’s her that cradles me. She walks me out of the kitchen, down a simply lit hall to my room. I sit on the bed and stare as she undoes my braided hair and unties my tightly cinched sash. She kisses me on the forehead and mutters something full of reverence, as one might pray to God. Does God even exist? I wonder, still sitting hunch backed and full of nothingness.

‘God, what’s going on?’

* * *

It’s been two months, and I can hold a rudimentary conversation. The…well I suppose the closest thing I can call him is line cook, named Derrel, has become a partner in crime of mine. He’s been a welcome constant who didn’t let my not-understanding of his language stop him from teasing me. If anything, it’s been the catalyst for learning quicker. Who knew double endentres were universal?

“What for dinner tonight?” I ask, knowing my fluency is stilted and awkward, but also maintaining pride in my ability to pick up that much.

“Venison.” What a surprise. “Hunters bring in many. Rangers here. Must be delicious.” To my ears, Derrel’s speech sounds just as chopped and coarse as mine does. He speaks slowly for me, and most of the time (at least recently) I can get the gist of what he says. Nevertheless, my ears perk up at Rangers. I had heard about them from the other girls I eat meals with. They were apparently _strapping lads_ of _incredibly handsome stature_ that sometimes came to the inn between their travels. “Men of the land”, Aldrid had referred to them once, and I couldn’t help but be curious about this group of people who seemed to be worshipped by the people who I worked with.

I chuckle as Derrel flips his spatula in a showy manner and drops one. He had the grace to look abashed, and his partner cook, Gunnar, shook his head in a fond yet exasperated manner. “Heyo!” I greeted him and smiled a blinding smile. A picture of perfect innocence.

“We cook venison because of you. You know I hate. Always get your way.” He shook his head at me this time. This time it was Derrel who full out guffawed. Both cooks knew I preferred preparing venison to preparing beef. I have a soft spot for cows with their big eyes and even bigger personalities. I cried for hours the first time I had to look at one’s carcass.

Derrel and Gunnar couldn’t understand my softness, and I suppose to them it didn’t make sense that I was so ‘at home’ in a kitchen yet I shrunk away from viscera and blood. I couldn’t very well explain that Taco Bell and Tijuana Flats had meat shipped to them and I only had to thwap it onto an assorted carbohydrate and call it a day. Thus, I decided to write off my squeamishness around dead farm animals as one of my many foreign idiosyncrasies and nutted up enough to butcher a deer.

“You know it!” I reply easily, turning and checking the plate in front of me to ensure the presentation was as good as it could be. I hadn’t thought that in this primitive village the kitchens and culinary services would be advanced enough to have a sous chef, line cooks, and prep cooks, but I’m thankful. Some things are different though: Aldrid serves as head matron rather than executive as she never touches a pot, but rather ensures the overall quality of meat, vegetables, and starches. Proper disposal of waste and putting up of dishes fell to Ambol, an elderly man who’s Aldrid’s right hand, but sometimes his gruffness is rather off-putting. I thank the wrong stars and not moon every night for my good fortune to have fallen into her good graces, as it was enough to grant me the ability to move around the kitchen and finding what best suits me.

I had been on dish duty recently, and will still be if Vargis, the young man who’s station it is but who also has a new wife and child to tend to, wishes to have a night off. My first few weeks as prep cook helped me prove my worth with vegetables (and not so much with meats) and general competency in a kitchen. I eventually floated over to the position of expediter, something I was very familiar with. It was there that I was obviously in my niche and Aldrid, bless her heart, took notice.

“Juno, Sigrid no here, need substitute.” I whip my head around and see Aldrid looking at me expectantly. I’m in shock.

“I cannot! I barely understand Common.” And while that sentence was fluent enough, that was about as good as it gets with me. I look to Derrel and Gunnar, both of whom are looking at Aldrid with eerily similar frowns.

“She is not well enough in Common. She will cause problem.” Derrel had a point, and Gunnar nodded along with him. I knew I had made a good decision in becoming fast friends with these guys.

“Trial by fire.” Aldrid nodded and that was that. Trial by fire. I hear the phrase often, especially from Derrel as he sometimes pulls me off of the expo line and has me work on the wood stove searing steaks and frying vegetables. I made it clear I can arrange things prettily but I could not cook (as clear as I could anyway), and Derrel made it a point to turn me around. This, however, was much different.

The battle was lost. I looked down at myself and saw the same hand me down with a cinched waist and limp fabric. It was an old style thing, sleeves down to my forearms, fabric down to my ankles, and rucking near my breast to make them appear more perky and appealing (something that doesn’t change no matter what planet, I suppose). I hadn’t worked long enough to stain it and I hadn’t sweat through the fabric. I figured my braided hair must still look neat.

I take of my apron and set it down with more than a little bit of attitude, wincing as Aldrid raises a gray brow. I don’t mean to look ungrateful, but I’m not excited to make an ass of myself. I stick a sickly smile on my face and smooth my dress once more. I suppose it must be appropriate enough for serving, as Aldrid makes no comment and I cannot sense disapproval. I follow her into the dining area and she points to several tables in a cluster.

“These yours, take orders, make nice, talk, beer.” She says a lot more in between, but I repeat what I understand to avoid confusion. She nods and smiles that beatific smile once more. I resign myself.

The area is empty save the ladies setting the tables and the boys cleaning the floors. Dinner service is within the hour and all of their hard word will be undone by naught but a few filthy travelers who haven’t heard of water before. Keeping my sneer in check will be the hardest part of the night. I assume the while inn is closer comparison to an Earthly 4 star hotel, the clientele is not.

Maybe I should just drop my expectation of cleanliness, especially if these are now to be my people and I am to be living with them. But these are _not_ my people. My people have discovered indoor plumbing and women’s rights. They’ve discovered the moons of Saturn and the Hale-Bopp comet. And pre packaged meat.

But here I am working in this dingy yet middle class inn. Serving travelers whose language I can hardly speak or understand, who come from lands that I cannot pronounce. Not only am I lost, but I am a young woman, and here that has no worth. My education, my ambitions, my likes and dislikes; they all mean nothing here. There is a void in my chest, a not unfamiliar one, but a different one all the same. It claws at me when I lay down to sleep, it causes the dew to gather in the corners of my eyes. It pounces when I least expect it. It is pantherlike and deadly, and so I tighten my leash on it.

‘_One day I will make peace with you, too. I owe my existence to myself_.’

Dinner service is running along smoothly. My tables are still empty, and so I have not interacted with customers at all. I’ve been busying myself calling back orders and running expo as I prefer. Aldrid remains a few feet from me overseeing the bustle as usual, and I look toward her.

“Sigrid no here, neither her customers.” Aldrid looks at me with a twinkle in her eye.

“Perhaps.” I smile at that. I know I shouldn’t be counting my stars yet, but I can’t help it. The universe may have dropped me in this medieval hell hole, but at least it grants me some mercies. I go back to rearranging asparagus and potatoes.

“Juno, table.” My smile drops. The universe really has it out for me, then. Aldrid smiles wider and I clear my throat and step away. Putting on my most pleasant smile I enter the dining area and swiftly trip over my feet. Great start.

My tables are pushed together and filled with the burliest, filthiest, and most intimidating group I gave ever seen. I swallow as the bar man, Alimar, steadies me. I smile at him but his face remains impassive. I get the feeling he doesn’t like me much, but nevertheless I nod and continue on.

“Hello. My name is Juno, I will serve. What can I get you?” I stumble over my words. I had been practicing them with Derrel since preparation started, and now my nerves have decided to make me look like an idiot. Which I guess I am since I cannot read or write here.

‘_Huh, I really _am_ an idiot_’

The man, gruff and appearing to be in his early 30’s, nods at one of his companions and looks up at me,

“12 tankards and a basket of bread for now. More people come.” I nod and smile,

“Be back!” I hurry away feeling heat on my cheeks as a few of his companions laugh at me. I haven’t been laughed at since middle school, and I had forgotten how awful it felt. Well not directly anyway, but the ladies I work with usually are so kind as to hide it.

“12 tankards and a big bread basket!” I call back. I hear an affirmative, and smooth my dress nervously. Another server, Gudrun, appears next to me,

“Can help you carry out?” I ask, and she readily agrees. I smile and tell her my thanks. Sooner than I would like the men in charge of the refreshments begin pushing tankards toward me on the long wooden table. Gudrun and I pile six each onto large metal trays and begin the perilous journey toward the mega-table I’ve been tasked with. The bread would have to wait.

As carefully and as un-obtrusively as I can manage, I begin to place a tankard in front of each of the men. Careful not to cross their faces with my arms, not bump their backs with my armpit, I smile a little brighter with each successful placement. I nod at the man who have me the order earlier.

“I will be out with bread soon.” I make so spin around and head back to the kitchens but he makes a curious sound in the back of his throat that makes me hesitate.

“You serve like halls of kings. Where are you from?” I understand this question, I had gotten it a lot. But I’m not sure if I understand his implication. Do I serve like I am used to dining with kings? Serving kings? Most likely the latter, but I cannot be sure.

“Far. Very far. I do not know of Kings.” I give a stunted bow and do not see his reaction.

Hurriedly I grab a pre-arranged basket of bread and head back to the dining area, placing it with the same care I did with the tankards. I startle when another member of the company grabs my forearm. Have I done something wrong? Did I offend him?

“You no speak good Common, what do you speak?” He relaxes his hold at my frightened face and I take a breath of relief. He’s just curious. Just a handsy, curious fellow. My fear turns to bitter amusement. No, I do not speak common very well, but he wouldn’t know English if it hit him over the head with an Oxford Dictionary.

“Dico Lingua Latina. Mater lingua.” My words are full of merriment and teasing. I may not be able to speak Common, but I am multi-lingual. Why not indulge in a bit of harmless flexing?

At my words the entire group straightened and stared at me. The man who had placed the order dropped his jaw and nearly his tankard, beer dribbling from his reddish beard.

“You know language of old.” His voice has lowered from its assured cadence to an almost reverent whisper. I shift my weight nervously. This is exactly what Derrel warned me of. My tendency to tease and jest is going to get me into trouble, he says often. And here I am with a table of some twelve men staring at me as though I hung the not moon and not stars. Like their prayers have been answered.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” I’m almost pleading. I’m so nervous I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my limbs. My arms shake with a desire to flee and my eyes dart toward the swinging doors of the kitchen. Why couldn’t I have just kept my mouth shut. Why did I take Latin for my foreign language requirement?

The man digs around in his jacket for a brief moment and pulls out a cylindrical case. It is one of the most ornately beautiful things I have ever seen. I stare, fixated beyond my better judgement as he undoes a latch and takes out a decrepit and wasted piece of…parchment?

“Can read this? Please.” His eyes hold such a profound glimmer of hope that I cannot just turn away.

“I can try.” I place the tray on the table in front of one of his companions with a murmured apology and delicately take the scroll from him. Beautiful calligraphy and stylized borders greet my eyes. I am in awe of such a clearly ancient text and feel so dirty handling it with my bare hands. Aren’t you not supposed to touch old things? The oils on your hands ruin it, I remember from a documentary on the History channel. But I don’t have a choice here.

“Uhm….yes. I understand it. I do not have Common words? I, uhh….” I stammer out, glossing over the ancient yet familiar language. It is written in classical form, with no punctuation and no distinction between upper and lowercase. It is gorgeous and flowing. But unlike it, my Common was _not _gorgeous and flowing. It was ugly and stilted and I still had so much to learn.

He looks at me with piercing eyes and I look back.

“You do not lie.” It wasn’t a question but I answer anyway in my nervousness.

“No.”

He nods, satisfied and says something in what I know for sure is not Common, and I am suddenly overwhelmed with the amount of things I do not know. I clear my throat and hand him back the scroll, and he accepts it graceful with a nod, tucking it back into its case.

“Can I get anything? Food?” I manage to get out, tucking a fly away hair behind my ear and smoothing my dress. He nods and requests a full spread. Grateful for the dismissal I rush to the kitchens, flustered as I have ever been.

“Full spread for 12!” I shout back. I hear an affirmative and sigh in relief. It will be a while before I have to go back out there. I amble around the table toward the back of the kitchen where the drinking water is stored. I drink two full cups before I see Aldrid walking up to me, and I give her a wobbly smile,

“Hello.” It is an awkward and unnecessary greeting but it is excused as one of my foreign quirks. She gives me a serious and considering look.

“You will go with them.” I’m so startled I can hardly remember how to breathe. Did she mean the men from the table? The one’s who caused me to almost enter cardiac arrest?

‘_Uh, listen here lady, you may be my boss but I am a person. I go where I want as I please. You are not my mama_!’

But all that escaped my mouth was, “What?”

“You go with Rangers. They need help. You help. ‘Tis noble.” And there it is. The most medieval part of this weird place. The belief of quests and journeys. Honor and valor seemed to top the charts where virtue was concerned (and heaven forbid you have a vagina, then virtue was your _only _concern). Every story told at dinner time and among my fellow coworkers (besides gossip) were tails of brave men who fought the enemy back to the Shadow.

Rangers, it seems clear to me now that, are some sort of noble people who go on quests and save the day. The good guys, the heroes, the people who go into dangerous situations and slay dragons and whatnot. The brave men against the Shadow.

I am not a hero, and the thought of the Shadow terrifies me.

“I cannot. No fight, no survive.” I spread my hands, trying to covey my feelings of how utterly pointless it would be for me to journey with a group of men into the wilds acting as a deadweight.

“They will protect. They need you. Sunrise be downstairs.” I have never seen Aldrid look as stern as she is now. Her eyes blaze with a fire and age I have never before seen, and it scares me in a way I have never felt before. I feel compelled to agree, not because she is making me, but because of the sense of rightness I feel. Whereas the moon, sun, and stars are wrong, this command is right.

I could stay here, in this inn. Joking with Darrel, avoiding Ambol, and smiling with Aldrid all of my life. I could die in this horrid little town whose name I have never given a damn to learn. I could lay in bed at night feeling wrong and horrid, feeling a dread and void that I cannot explain even in my mother tongue- or I could go. Go into the wilds with these 12 men with scruffy beards and severe faces. Figure out this strange land with strange customs, figure out my purpose.

“I – Yes, ma’am.”


	2. My feet ached, I could go no more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot more to Arda than swords and magic. And certainly many more things that a mortal can succumb to.
> 
> Alt Summary: Our protagonist forgets the wise words of Bear Grylls and travels while wet.

The sleep I wake from is filled with nightmares and restlessness. The sun hasn’t yet risen and the stars still shine brightly upon me. I stand under them along with a company of wild men whom I had just met the night before.

* * *

I had finished serving them without incident the night before, with Gudrun helping me with refills such, and they had tipped us well. Afterward, when the din died down and most of the other patrons went to sleep, Aldrid had called me over as I was finishing up the dishes. She led me up the stairs into a room double the size of mine. It was lined with bunks and packs, and filled with the 12 men from the table.

Nervously I wiped my hands on my dress, realizing its futility as I felt my entire abdomen and pelvic area drenched in dish water. I wasn’t fit to be meeting anyone, nevertheless Aldrid curtseyed and I tried my best to mimic her with unsure and unsteady feet. The men bowed in response and began to introduce themselves. The leader was Veddal, and the two closest to him were Bront and Drenod. Their stares were so scrutinizing I couldn’t focus on the rest of the introduction, only jolting into reality when Aldrid squeezed my shoulder and looked at me expectantly.

“My name is Juno, Juno Pryor. Pleasure to meet you all.” My smile was weak.

“She is good worker, good woman. Virtuous.” I blushed in embarrassment and irritation. I was more than ‘virtuous’ and a ‘good worker’. But I stayed quiet as Aldrid talked me up, and shifted my feet.

Veddal nodded. “No doubts, any experience?” I assumed he was talking about traveling but the conversation began in earnest and I couldn’t follow even a fraction of it. I fought down the feeling of further annoyance as my fate was being discussed as though I wasn’t in the room, but I supposed I could have been excluded physically as well.

“It is decided.” Veddal announced after about 10 minutes of back and forth with Aldrid and input from Bront and Drenod. He walked up to me, and I was forced to crane my neck back to look at all 6’3 of him. The dynamic made me uncomfortable and I felt every ounce of the inexperienced 20 year old I was. He put out his hand and on instinct I went to meet his with mine, to shake, but he held it aloft and placed a featherlight kiss above it.

“Our honor to protect you to Last Homely House.” He spoke and nodded sagely. I had no idea what a homely house was, or where I was going, but I looked to the other rangers. They looked back either impassively or with a ghost of a grimace. A better reception than I expected from hardened men having to tote a girl around the wilderness. I then looked to Aldrid. She smiled at me, one of her patented calming smiles, and I couldn’t help but return it this time. I’d been though the unknown before, I could do it again.

* * *

I woke with a start from a nightmare, and sat in my lumpy bed for a long moment reclaiming my wits. I couldn’t remember what I had dreamt, but it made my heart leap from my chest and my face slick with sweat. I swallowed hard and removed myself from the thin blanket I had. The chill of autumn had made itself known, but I (against better judgement) decide to step into my basin and give my entire body a good scrub down. Including my hair. I had no idea when the next opportunity to get clean would be.

I took my time, scrubbing my skin red and raw, cringing as I felt and saw the hair on my legs and other areas. But I was clean. A quick rap on my door let me know that Aldrid was about to enter, but I did nothing to hide myself. At this point she had seen all of me.

“Good morning.” She looks well rested and bright eyed, carrying a pack. I wish that I could match her exuberance but I instead make a sound in the back of my throat. Aldrid tuts and grabs my chin gently with her free hand.

“You’ll be fine.” She says it sweetly, but with conviction, and I tell myself that she’s right, that I will be fine. I have to be. Will it into existence. So I nod and step out of the basin and she takes a bundle of clothes out of the pack. They’re different from my normal drab fit: soft tan leggings and a sturdy looking tunic.

Aldrid slides a pair of boots toward me, leather and sturdy. They’ve been worn before, I can tell by the creases in the toes and heel, but I know how expensive they must have been. My eyes mist over as I look at her.

“Thank you so much.” My voice chokes with pent up emotion and she nods at me in understanding. I grab my pack from the side of my bed, the one I had arrived here with, and grab my sports bra and socks. I’ve gotten used to the free movement of no underwear and see no issue with traveling as such, but I refuse to trek through the wilds with a bouncing chest and sweaty feet. I dress myself quickly and braid up my hair, enjoying the vibe of activity I feel. Like I’m about to go for a long run in the dense forests of my hometown.

I take the rest of the pack from her and examine its contents: a comb, two more sets of clothes, a block of soap, some foodstuffs, and a water skin. Basic survival items. After some deliberation, I open my pack and I put my water bottle in as well. It’s a bright blue thing and I resolve to only use it in emergencies to avoid questions. I look at the energy chews and the tampons I have as well. The energy chews were an obvious addition, and I was glad (not for the first time) that the stress and lack of proper nutrition had ensured that my period hadn’t come for the past 2 months. Not that three tampons would last long, but it was something. So I shoved them deep into the pack between clothes and then clasped the top shut.

I hear a noise and look up; Aldrid is rummaging through the chest at the foot of the bed. I walk over,

“Do you need help?”

She shakes her head and then with an “ah ha!” Lifts a bundle from the bottom of the chest. As it unfolds I see that it’s a warm long woolen cloak. Brown and beautiful. She drapes it around me, clasping it at my neck. I feel warm and protected, and as I look into her eyes, safe. She pats my shoulder and says something in a language I am almost positive is not Common, but it’s much too quick for me to be sure.

“Thank you.” I mean it more sincerely than anything I have said in my life. Thank you for this room you gave me, thank you for this job, thank you for your trust. All things I wanted to say but I hope came across anyway. Aldrid just gives me a smile, so honest and trusting that I know my meaning came across.

I sling my pack onto my back and we begin the walk to the front of the inn. Outside the rangers are waiting, all in cloaks and sturdy clothes with packs of their own slung across their backs. Veddal nods at Aldrid and then at me. We return the nod and stop in front of them.

“Take care of her.” Aldrid’s voice is serious and foreboding, and I feel another burst of sadness that I have to give her up. Hopefully one day I will return and take my place at the inn, but deep down I know that that will likely not happen, and the thought brings tears to the corners of my eyes. This is goodbye.

I turn to Aldrid and begin to say so, but the sound of pounding footsteps and large breaths distract me. Derrel and Gunnar round the corner from the back of the in,

“Can’t leave yet.” Derrel pants out.

“No goodbye?” Gunnar jokingly says but I can see the genuine hurt. I run to them and give each one a rare and tight hug which is returned in equal measure.

“How did you know?” I ask, wondering how they knew I was leaving when I only knew a couple hours before hand. Derrel pointed to Aldrid and Gunnar nodded. I already owed so much to this woman, but now I couldn’t possibly ever repay her for telling my only two acquaintances to attend my send off.

My eyes are leaking at this point, and I am only stopped from sobs by Veddal clearing his throat. The dawn is beginning to show signs of breaking and it’s time to go. I grab one of Gunnar’s hands and one of Derrel’s,

“Be good.”

I turn to Aldrid and without thought give her a tight hug that feels light it goes on forever, but she accepts it with a grace only Aldrid can. I pull back and look at her.

“You will go far.” She says to me and gives me hope that maybe everything will be okay.

I turn to the company and smile weakly. Bront returns my smile with the same unsureness and strain.

It’s going to be a long journey.

* * *

I have never regretted anything more than deciding to wash my hair before going on an intensive journey in the wild. By the end of the first day I had begun to sniffle and wipe my running nose with my sleeve. The rangers give me concerned looks as we set up camp as I have progressed to sneezing and clearing my throat, but I ignore them and turn over on my bed roll.

The next day I can hardly talk or swallow. I painfully accept the small hunk of bread and preserve, and struggle to eat. Veddal moves to walk next to me rather than at the front of the pack.

“You are sick.” He looks worried, moreso than I think he should.

“It’s okay, this happens often. New place, wet hair, bad decision. I’ll be okay.” I smile at him with a raw nose and bleary eyes. He just looks at me and says nothing for a moment. Then he nods and walks back up front. I can still see the tenseness of his shoulder, and am almost certain if I looked close enough I would see the tightness around his eyes.

The day continues with rangers looking at me with concern, and me struggling to keep up even more than I anticipated. The food in the village had such a low nutritional value, and my newfound cold made my bones ache and want to do nothing but sleep. My thighs and back side ache fiercely, and the spot between my shoulder blades is screaming at me under the weight of my pack. We’ve only been travelling for three days but I’ve had enough.

Every morning it has been the same thing: Pack up camp, cram a piece of bread or jerky, and go on our merry way ever deeper into the forest. My toe nails, which I haven’t been able to cut since my arrival bang painfully against the front of my boots, and that pain alone makes me want to cry. I’m nervous to have to stop and relieve myself because every time I do the entire company stops and creates a wider perimeter as I try to overcome my stage fright and do my business. I apologize for the inconvenience every time, as I feel as though they must be annoyed, but they just wave away my broken Common and grunt some sort of ‘no problem’.

The lack of hygiene alone is enough to make me absolutely hate everything I’m going through. I can hardly appreciate the natural beauty surrounding me, as I often did back home when on runs in new places. However, I remind myself that I used to be fit enough to keep up with the best of them. Now I’m thirty pounds lighter and miserable.

“Veddal?” I walk up beside him. It’s midday and the sun is strongest. Luckily it isn’t summer or spring, but the light filters prettily through the trees.

“Yes?” He looks down at me, and his eyes are such a piecing gray that I have to swallow and muster courage to continue speaking.

“How long do we travel?” It was a question I had been meaning to ask for a long while, but felt too intimidated to initiate contact with any of the men.

“Two weeks to Imladris.” I stare at him. “What the hell is Imladris?” I ask myself in English, and he looks confused at the foreign tongue but recognizes the gist of what I mean.

“The Last Homely house of Lord Elrond. You will be safe there.” So I was going to see a Lord, dressed like a wild woman, smelling like a goat, and sick as a dog. Sure, like that would be well received. I’ve already received the generosity of one person for an extended amount of time, and now I was on to the next. I feel like crumbling in on myself. Would I ever truly have a place here? Would I ever get home?

“What is he lord of?” I hear myself ask before I can think better of it. What kind of question is that? I berate myself. Obviously Imladris is an estate of some kind, and this Elrond was the lord of the manor.

“The-“, here he says something which I have never heard before, “-of Imladris, he is _peredhel_, and he takes pride and joy in waystop for my people.” Veddel takes a reverent tone, and I stare at him in disbelief. I’ve already been serving girl at a medieval inn, started a quest with a company of unbelievably chivalrous men, and wandered into a forest in another world. Why shouldn’t generous lords be real.

“Ah. I see.” And in fact I did _not_ see, but anything to close the conversation so I could stew in my disbelief some more.

* * *

It’s on day eight that something goes horribly wrong.

I’ve been making small talk with Bront and Veddal as best as I could, asking questions about the trees and weeds that surround us. It gives me a chance to learn new vocabulary and practice my conversational skills. They’re gruff men, and while Veddal doesn’t have a humorous bone in his body, Bront is always down for some quick wit and a laugh.

Most of the jokes I would normally make in English miss their mark by virtue of me not being fluent or confident enough in my speech to use sarcasm effectively, or think of sharp replies in a timely fashion. But there are occasions when a zinger slips out with just enough raunchiness that some of the men chuckle and I still retain my ‘virtue’. It’s a fine line I walk, and I’m used to shooting the shit with the dirtiest of ‘em, but I have been trying my hardest to remember that in this place I need to be careful because reputation is all women seem to have.

We sit down for a quick spell of lunch, all of our stomachs growling fiercely. My muscle aches have dulled enough that I can sit and stand with more ease than before. I was in a better mood, knowing that we were halfway done with our woodland trek, and my comments and laughter flowed more freely. My disposition made the men loosen up considerably as well.

I made sure to not complain and do my very best to keep up with them (even though I knew I slowed them down with my need to rest more frequently than them. But I also made sure to make light of the situation by telling short stories from work. Both in Bree and in Florida. It was all choppy and not so easy to understand, but the stories were funny enough and my laugh infectious enough to have the men laughing or smiling along.

“He say to me ‘I can take four of them!’ So annoying! So I say ‘_do it!_’, and he grabs pans and then slips in doorway! Soup all over me! Only way he could get lady wet, I swear.” Drenold, one of the rangers, snorts out a laugh, and I smile. It’s my first time making him actually react.

“You do not speak like a lady.” Veddal looks at me pointedly, and I feel myself blush. I know that I should be prim and proper, but I can’t use humor to distract myself if all I concern myself with are ‘womanly things’.

“Am no lady. I am Juno.” I give him a wicked grin, and he shakes his head with a wry smile. I open my mouth to finish the tale, but just as I do so, Bront and Gerson jump to their feet. I stop what I’m doing instantly, hunk of bread and cheese forgotten. Veddal cocks his head and I watch as his expression changes from lax to stern in the blink of an eye.

“Wargs.”

I have no idea what a warg is, but I take it as a signal to stand. Hurriedly I shove my food into my pack and look around nervously. Then I hear it. Vicious snarling sounds from every corner, coupled with powerful sounding footfalls. Wargs must be wolves, I think, wolves that actively hunt and attack large groups of humans. _Rabid_ wolves. I’m near hysterical, and my body picks this moment to start crying.

The rangers form a perimeter around me, and just as they take out their assorted weapons – bows and swords – the wargs come into view and swiftly descend on us. Veddal slashes one cleanly at the throat, but the wound isn’t deep enough and only serves to stun the creature, splashing the ground with a putrid metallic tang that fills my nose and makes me gag. Another warg comes at him from the side and I almost scream at him to watch it, but another ranger, Hethon, lands an arrow clean at the base of its neck, rendering it lifeless.

My head darts around. Hethon might have killed one, and it looks as though Bront and Drenod have taken out two others, but there are at least fifteen more. Some are so vicious the rangers can’t get a clean shot or an opening to take them out, not for lack of trying. I turn back to Veddal. He’s covered in warg blood and the one from earlier is beneath him with a dagger protruding from the side of it’s maw. He looks like he’s wrestled the damn thing. Quickly he shoots up and slashes another one at the belly. This time, the cut is so deep it nearly flays it in half, and this time I am actually sick.

I bend over and hurl my stomach’s meager contents all over the side of our camp. The bile fills my nose and clouds my senses. I can dimly hear the wargs snarling and the men grunting as they fight for their lives and mine, and I feel more than useless. I look up again and see Drenod land a nice blow to the back of a particularly large warg with several wounds already. It looks as though that’s the one that will bring it down, but quicker than I can comprehend, a small runty looking beast rams into him from the side, mouth firmly affixed to Bront’s middle.

The scream I let out takes me by surprise and I’m running to him instantly. Drenod, in all of his huge stature and strength, grabs the warg by the maw and pulls and pulls, until a snap rings loud through the trees and the beast gives a pain filled yowl that trickles into death. All I can see is Bront’s eyes, beautiful and ice cold in the sun light, filled with horror and surprise.

“You’re gonna be okay, it’s gonna be okay. He didn’t hold you for too long, you got a shot.” I’m rambing in English, cradling his face. Veddal and Hethon have already rushed over with Bray, another ranger. They rummage through their packs and pull out a bottle of what I can only hope is astringent, and bandages. Bront tries to say something but chokes horribly on blood pooling in the back of his throat. I tilt his head to the side and pray it’s _just_ from him getting knocked in the face at some point rather than the internal bleeding I fear. His mouths leaks out a splash of blood before he jerks back to looking straight up. I’m back in his field of vision, but he isn’t looking at me so much as looking through me.

The warg’s teeth don’t look overly long, with the canines being about two inches, but I don’t know much about anatomy or medicine so I can’t determine If they could cause a puncture to a vital organ. I look back at Bront who’s eyes now roam my face, darting this way and that, and I brush back sweaty brown hair off his forehead.

“Hey, just keep those baby blues on me.” I give him the best smile I can and hope vomit isn’t crusting at the corners of my mouth. He winces and gives a strangled shout as Veddal and Hethon work to close his wound, doing I don’t even know what - I can’t bring myself to look at Bront’s mangled side.

In a last ditch effort to calm Bront I begin humming a tune from back home. It’s so mindless and instinctual, and I’m not even sure if I’m on key, but it’s enough for Bront to relax his grip on the soil beneath him and focus solely on me. I keep the tune going, repeating the chorus many more times than the actual song until Veddal and Hethon finish their job.

“There we go. You’re gonna be alright.” My voice is soft and calming, like how I would talk to a stray cat, but it does the trick. Bront has gone from pained choking to soft grunts, and it seems as though the shock has mostly left him.

“Need clean up, then move on. Dangerous.” Veddal slings his pack over his back and the rest of the rangers begin doing the same. I’m still kneeling on the ground next to Bront, unwilling to leave, but Hethon nudges my shoulder and pointed to my things. Grudgingly I stand up and grab my pack, and am pleased to see Hethon and Drenod helping Bront to stand. As we start walking, the rangers make sure Bront and I are in the middle (and thus Hethon and Drenod) and we move tightly as a unit now, quicker than before despite exhaustion. We don’t stop moving until we come across a small stream, and the sun is making its way under the horizon.

Veddal says something quickly, and Hethon and Drenod take Bront a little ways down stream and begin to remove his clothes and bandages. I watch long enough to see the horrible bite and torn skin, but avert my eyes when his pants begin being unlaced. Hethon and Drenod will do a good job taking care of him, I tell myself. I move back to where the other men are setting up camp, which at this point is just dropping their packs and laying out bedroll. I suppose a fire isn’t wise.

Glumly I pull out my cheese and bread I had abandoned from before. My stomach has been rolling for the past hours, and I don’t feel like eating in the slightest, but as I look at my bony wrists I can only imagine how skeletal I must appear. We still have 6 days to go, and I need the strength to keep up with the newly quickened pace.

As I eat I look around at the men and instead of the plainly stoic faces I am used to seeing, I see wary and hardened travelers with taught muscles and tense shoulders. Where there is usually soft chatter that I struggle to understand there is silence in the wood, and it unnerves me. The trees rustle idly and the bugs make odd buzzing sounds from time to time, but the darkness between the branches and bark doesn’t fill me with the welcome wonder I had begin to feel comfortable with. Instead it makes me feel claustrophobic.

Before I realize it, I’m staring into space. Cheese and bread forgotten. I know I should finish the food, but I can’t. I know if I’m not going to eat, I should sleep, but I cannot bring myself to turn over and lay down. I’m stuck. I have to figure out how to pull myself out of it, because I don’t have the luxury of waiting an hour or so to snap back like I normally do. _A song_ I think. Maybe the familiarity of it will make me calm down. So I begin to hum. I can hear the music like a background theme in my mind, and I idly feel myself sway.

I would like nothing more than to actually verbalize the lyrics but I can’t bring myself to move my mouth. Before I know it, I’m leaning against the tree behind me and the adrenaline has officially run out. I watch the East idly waiting for the new day.

Thinking of nothing, I drift off.

* * *

The sickness I had contracted at the beginning of the journey has only gotten worse.

It’s the day after the warg attack. Bront seems to be doing a little better, and definitely over the shock he initially had. He’s been joking around with Hethon and Drenod, and making vain attempts to get Veddal to join in his forced merriment, but our fearless leader only smiles and shakes his head at every jibe. The worry from all of the men makes the air heavy, and some of the other men have also been joining in our joking to try and release the tension. It isn’t working very well, especially because I’m struggling to keep my breathe as we trek up a particularly tough slope.

My nose is stuffed completely, but my throat is also swollen, so every breath is a battle. I can hear my wheeze with every intake and I know the company can as well, but I wave away their concern. Bront is infinitely more important than I am, and I keep an eye on his side. I can see the bandages almost soaked through with blood and whatever paste was put on the wound to prevent infection. Or it’s pus. I can’t tell and I’m not sure I want to know.

We stop twice through the day to take less than ten minute breaks, both times Hethon checks Bront’s dressing, and around midday he changes it. I reflexively gag when I glance over and look at the viscera that dangles from his abdomen, and he chuckles at my poor reaction.

“Never seen the inside of a man before?” Bront winks at me, and I’m unsure how to take the poor joke. Perhaps something is lost in translation? Or has he become so desperate to lighten the mood that he’ll say even the worst of jokes. Deciding the latter is most likely true, I give him a weak smirk.

“More times than you’ve seen inside of woman.”

He explodes into laughter at the chagrin of Hethon who can hardly get him to not wince as he wraps a new band of gauze-like material. Drenod, who also gave a hearty chuckle, shakes his head at me.

“I don’t know what women are like where you’re from, but here, you are not like any woman.”

I hear no malice in his tone and decide to take it as a weird compliment, so I smile at him. Before I can think of anything more to say, Hethon announces that Bront is ready to go on, and we continue on our way.

We soldier on for another hour or so when I notice it. A small sting in my back on every inhale. I test it- holding my breath and paying close attention to see if I still feel it. Perhaps it’s a gas bubble, or lingering soreness from my considerable pack. But no, it dings into existence like clockwork, in time with every breath. I look around at the company: Veddal looks drawn, Hethon worried, Drenod overextended, even Bray looks out of it. I can’t bring it up now, but I can pray to whatever god exists that I start to cough up whatever is in my lungs before my little infection turns into a big problem.

* * *

It’s been two days. Two more days of meager food, bad jokes, and an anxious Veddal. Bront’s side seems to have some sort of infection brewing, and every time I see the wrappings being changed I still gag, but it’s nothing that Hethon can’t clean out and it thankfully hasn’t spread.

My infection, on the other hand, is exponentially worse. The pain is almost intense enough to make me misstep over the grassy terrain, but I take advantage of the idle conversation in the company and focus on the words rather than my lungs. I feel like my understanding of Common has gotten better, but it’s bittersweet because I’m probably going to die and there’s nothing I can do about it.

The day is winding down, another one done, and we have only five more until we reach Imladris. I’m curious what kind of welcome we’ll receive, but hope with all my heart it’s one full of baths and soft clothing. Maybe this Lord Elrond speaks English and I can finally figure out just where the hell I am.

With an efficiency I’m proud of I whip out my bedroll and begin to eat my small ration for the evening. As I sit I can feel the weariness of the past week settle into my legs and arms, and I feel more tired than I ever have. Lifelessly, I bring the bread to my mouth and mechanically chew small chunks, gasping for breath and wincing in pain from my throat and my lungs. My shoulder and back muscles feel numb, and at this point I have mastered the art of ignoring chafing. All I can feel is pressure from the waist up.

“Juno, are you okay.” Hethon asks me. He looks ready to spring forward from his roll. I look up drearily, and realize that he’s not alone. Veddal and some of the other men are all looking at me nervously, not like they are afraid of me, but _for _me.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just need sleep.” And with that I swallow the last of my bread, hiding a wince and choking down a hiss of pain, and flop back on my bed roll.

I need more than sleep. I need an ambulance.

* * *

I have become accustomed to rising with the sun, eating a ration, and getting on my way with the company, but this morning I don’t register the light hitting my face, nor the first couple attempts by Veddal and Hethon to wake me.

Slowly I open my eyes, but they feel like they’ve been glued shut during the night. Finally I move to sit up and then stand, and I see Bront looking at me with open worry. I painstakingly pack my roll then pick up my pack and grab a hunk of cheese, before slinging it slowly and painfully onto my back. I smile to Veddal and the others.

“I’m alright.” My voice sounds weak and wrong, and when I take a few steps forward, I know I’m too far gone. Every step is absolute agony. My chest is too tight. Every breath feels like it has nowhere to go, and my vision goes alight with stars. I nearly fall, but one of the men, Uthor, scoops me up. I’m too focused on trying to get air into my body that I don’t register the commotion, but I feel myself being turned this way and that, and then cradled into someone’s - I think it’s Uthor’s - chest.

The men speak rapidly in common, uncaring if I understand them or not. I can’t even begin to focus enough to parse out the words though, because I’m too focused on the elephant that’s sitting on my chest. Possibilities swing through my head and I wonder if I have a virus or of its bacteria causing my illness. In any case, I’m almost certain Ye Olde Earth doesn’t have antiviral meds or antibiotics.

I’m going to die, and it isn’t even going to be a cool death.

* * *

A rough voice is warbling some lullaby tune when I next awake. I feel as if my skin is on fire, like I’m burning from the inside, and I begin to moan in displeasure. I need a nice cold shower, to lay on some cool tile, anything other than the radiator like heat from the man carrying me.

“We are almost there. Stop.” The voice breaks its song to reprimand me, but it’s gentle and full of worry. Distantly I think, ‘almost there? We were five days out when I dropped.’ But before I can ask any questions I find my eyelids drooping without my permission. Sleep claims me again.

* * *

When I next awake there is no lullaby or strong arms around me. There is, however, soft sheets and a cool breeze. I still feel too warm for my skin, but it doesn’t blaze like it had before. I’ve never had a fever that intense and I’m scared it’s done some lasting damage.

I sit up slowly, feeling an incredible wave of nausea overcome me. I choke it down and look around. The room I’m in is bare, but not sterile. I feel a sense of warmth and comfort, like it’s my room and I belong here, but it unnerves me in its impossibility. I’ve never been here and I should not be so complacent. A soft white quilt is draped softly over me and as I examine it. I can’t put my finger on the material - it feels so familiar yet alien. The entire room is much the same. The walls are hewn stone but they look like they could be marble. The flooring is made of fine wood varnish but I have never seen such raw craftsmanship. It all looks as if it’s been made by hand, but no one I have ever met could have done such a thing. Let along make an entire room.

I hear a knock at the door, two exact raps, and then a woman enters with a basket of rags and a pale of water. Her beauty gives me whiplash and I stare at her slack jawed. She smiles benevolently at me and says something in the most beautiful language I have ever heard. I stutter out a few phrases in common, but she only shakes her head a bit.

The water in the pale sloshes a bit, and I’m reminded of a pressing need I have. I try to ask the woman where the bathroom is, but she keeps on smiling and begins to busy herself wetting and wringing dry the rags. I can’t wait though, I have to _go_. I can feel my bladder giving in and to spare myself mortification I swing myself out of bed and toward a corner of the room with a shade separating it. I figure if there’s a chamber pot in here, it’s probably behind it.

I hear her cry out in alarm and before I can register my nausea is back full force and there’s no stopping it. All of my focus is gone from my bladder and rushes to my esophagus. Yellowish pale bile goes everywhere, burning my nose and covering the pristine floor. I jerk my head away from the bed, not wanting to soil the coverings, but it’s too late to mitigate all disaster - I’ve begun to soil myself. I try to stop, and am partially successful, but by the time my vomit induced tears leak from my eyes, I’m wet from the waist down and standing in a puddle of my own sick and urine.

The woman is talking rapidly and when I look at her I see a face filled with horror and pity. My eyes well up and I’m crying. She comes over to me and grabs my arms, helping me step over the puddle I’ve made. She makes a motion, and instinctively I raise my arms. She grabs helps me out of my ruined night dress and then pins back my hair with a few pins from her own head. She methodically washes my body with the rags and pale of water, which I now realize is lavender scented. I try to stop her, to tell her I can do it myself, but she shakes her head firmly. She says something that sounds so sweet and kind, it makes me want to cry again, so I just nod my head.

My modesty is non existent at this point. She’s seen me throw up, cry, and piss myself, so what if she sees my breasts? I rationalize. After she is done with my body she moves to my hair, dunking it in the basin and removing any muck. It’s all very quick and efficient, and it saves me some embarrassment. When she finishes she goes to a dresser in the corner closest to the bed and pulls out a simple shift. It’s made of a sturdy thick material, but doesn’t feel too heavy as I hold it in my hand.

She lets me dress, or at least attempt to dress myself, helping only with the ties at the back of the dress. It’s a lovely blue color, and I feel like a beast in it. I’m all cleaned up. I smile at her and thank her profusely in English and common. Again she says more kind sounding words and guides me back to the bed from the unsoiled side. I protest – I’ve made a mess of the floor and need to clean it – but she must understand the gist of what I mean with all of my tugging and looking over at the gross puddle, and shakes her head.

The woman gently pushes me into soft down bed and tucks me into the quilts and blankets. I want to fight her, but the burning in my lungs is back and a wave of tiredness makes my decision for me. With half lidded eyes I watch as she leaves the room and returns quickly with rags and more water. I begin to weep quietly as she cleans up my mess, and I don’t notice when I fall asleep.

* * *

When I next awake, I am drenched in sweat and no longer in the white shift. Instead I’m in a pale blue thing that wreaks of sickness. There’s a man in my room this time, but I’m so out of it I barely register him. I don’t recognize my surroundings, much less where exactly I am, and the panic begins to set in and make me illogical. I struggle to sit up and the man moves quickly over to me, saying things in a beautiful lilting language that is so unlike anything I can remember hearing that it’s alien-ness only serves to frighten me more.

My eyes go wide as he touches my shoulder, and I freeze in fear. I can’t remember much, but I remember that being a helpless woman alone in a room with a strong looking man is not a situation I would want to be in. I look at him fully now. He’s taller than most men I’ve ever met and I can feel the threat of strength in his hand. He has a bearing like a lord or a king, something regal and foreign, and his beauty cannot be described as anything other than ethereal.

“-nd, Elrond.” I realize he is saying to me, pointing to himself with his free hand. Elrond. The name jerks me back to my mind. Elrond. Lord of Imladris, a man who can help me. Peredhel. Images of Veddal, Uthor, and Bront, oh _Bront, _flash through my mind. Where are my friends? Are they okay? But all that comes out of my mouth is,

“Imladris.”

Elrond nods and his face softens from worry. He begins to speak in common very slowly,

“Fever, very bad. Fluid in chest. You have been through the worst of it, you will be okay.”

I nod at him. I’m drenched in sweat and smell awful, and nodding is all I can do. The thought of constructing a sentence in common is enough to make my head spin and my stomach turn. However, I supposed I should say something, so in warbled and slurred English I manage,

“_Thank you so much_.”

Elrond looks puzzled by my words, but I cant be bothered to attempt a translation, so I let myself drift off once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing's first: I hope the disjointedness of the chapter makes sense. I'm really trying to convey how it must feel to travel with pneumonia through the wilds. Please let me know what you think :)
> 
> Secondly (but no less important): Thank you all so much for your support! I really didn't expect people to read this, but I'm glad some are.   
It all started with me getting VERY frustrated at some of the MGiME stories. They aren't bad, there's just something for everyone.   
That said, I hope you enjoy my take on this 20 year old trope.


	3. When I Saw Him I Wept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral, a friend, and a revelation. Not necessarily in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I write this story at work in paper in pen. I also construct the poetry in between calls. SO yeah. It's pitiful, but I hope there's a little something for ya'll to enjoy (i.e. please let me know what you think). 
> 
> As always, thank you for taking the time out of your day to read my mind vomit.

The third time I wake I am no longer sweaty and smelling of sick. As I turn over I realize that the sheets beneath me are no longer stark white but a docile vanilla, and I smile into their flowery soft sent. My legs shake as I stretch, my muscles no longer screaming at me, but signing in relief. I spread myself eagle and let out a groan as my shoulders pop and my back cracks. I feel more rested than I have since I arrived in the place, like I’ve run a half marathon and followed up with a day trip to the spa.

I grimace when my tongue runs over my caked teeth and outright wince when I think about the state of my breath. It’s enough to drag me up and out my cloud-like heaven. As my feet hang over the bed I vaguely remember embarrassing myself in the very spot below my feet and feel an incurable need to apologize with something other than incoherent tears.

Painstakingly, I rise. Carefully I hold myself still for several seconds to avoid a head rush of a fainting spell. I walk over to the partition in the corner of the room. I find a chamber pot, a pale of water, miscellaneous bottles, and an odd looking not-quite-branch with bristles of unknown fibers. I figure it must be some kind of primitive tooth brush, maybe something expensive as I hadn’t seen it at the inn.

I unscrew the caps of all of the jars and sniff each one. One smelled faintly of jasmine and looked to be a lotion of some kind. Another smelled of rose and looked more like an oil than anything. The third I picked up was a paste-like substance and smelled of mint and bark, but I couldn’t distinguish a note of wood. Perhaps it was from a tree I had never seen before. I decided to dip the bristle twig into it and the wet it with a bit of water.

The relief of brushing my teeth was so strong it nearly brought me to tears. I must have stood there for minutes on end just scrubbing the bristles into my enamel. After swishing some more water around my mouth and spitting into the chamber pot, I repeated the process twice more; scrubbing my teeth, gums, and tongue until they were almost raw.

After I finished I padded over to the dresser. Inside the first drawer, to my surprise, were the contents of my pack and the clothes I arrived wearing. The other three drawers were full of cotton shifts of a variety of soft colors and chemises. I swiftly decided that I was tired o the shifts and the general feeling of being a patient in a sick house, so I shucked off my shift and put on the things I had arrived in, grimacing at the amount of body hair I had managed to accumulate.

I pawed at my hair and instead of the rats nest I expected I only found smooth curls and no tangles. With a soft ‘huh’ I looked around the room for my boots but found nothing but soft slippers that looked much too small and rip-able for me to wear in good conscience. So I decided to put on just my socks and venture away from the room I had been in for a time unknown to me.

The hallway I was greeted with wasn’t exactly opulent, but it resonated with a kind of beauty that both humbled and empowered me. I made not a sound as I walked with all of my weight on the balls of my feet, afraid to mar the tranquility I had been ensconced by. There were huge aching windows with masterfully decorated keystones indicating a lack of roman influence but rather a heavy Gothic inspiration. The hallway itself was so long and airy I supposed it was more fitting to be called a breezeway.

It stretched in for a bit, with a couple of doors on either side and finally rounded a corner to the left. I followed, bated breath on what would greet me around the bend.

The sight was a lovely one; a beautiful woman with chestnut hair and smiling eyes turned to me. Her mouth arched into a blinding white smile and I was struck dumb by the radiance that emanated from her unblemished skin. Her face turned to one of concern and I realized she had been speaking to me in that liquid language that sounded so much sweeter from her lips that it had from Elrond’s.

“I do not understand.” I raised my hand, fingers spread in a plaintive gesture, and I smiled deprecatingly. I felt nearly unworthy to be near her in my general idiocy of this world.

“Oh of course. I speak common as well.” Her soft accented voice mad me melt into my socks and I was mortified to feel a blush growing on my sickly hollowed cheeks.

“Thank you _ma’am_. I am Juno, Juno Pryor.” I held out my hand to shake, completely forgetting this world’s etiquette for a moment and only remembering myself when I catch her puzzled look.

“Oh, my apology, it is a custom from my home. Shake in greeting.” The blush worsens and I have never experienced such profound mortification. My hand drops to my side and I decide, belatedly, to curtsy. A courtly titter escaped the woman and she returns the action with inhuman grace and posture.

“Well met Juno-“ and my name on her tongue sends a frisson of joy down my spine “-I am Arwen. You’re home seems very curious.” Her head is tilted to the side, eyeing me like I am some puzzle. Which I suppose I am.

“It is very, very far from here. Very different too.” I shrug and shift my weight. Arwen gives me a graceful nod and then makes a small gesture.

“Come, walk with me to garden.” I nod and walk alongside her, struggling not to smile like an idiot.

The gardens were more magnificent than I could have imagines. The paths were lined with sweet grass and myrtle, laurel and other flowering trees I could not name dotted the landscape artfully. Between them sat blooming azaleas, petunias, tulips and countless other species that I was sure some of them did not grow on Earth. One flower in particular, a tiny purple bud with a shockingly white center held me transfixed.

“I am glad you feel better, Your sickness was very bad.” Arwen led me to a stone bench with vine like filigree on its legs. I sat with my back ramrod straight, intimidated by the overarching sense of propriety the immaculate landscape and impeccable architecture suggested.

“In my home we call it pneumonia. Many people die without certain medicine. I’ve had it before. I’m surprised I am alive this time.” I meet her eyes and am surprised to find a sadness and deep degree of empathy.

“Have you ever been that sick?” I asked her.

“No, my people do not experience illness of that nature.” She replied. Her tone was gentle and oddly enough, expecting.

“Your people?” I was afraid of the answer. The garden then seemed too perfect, the architecture too clean for the dark ages, her face too ageless and smooth to be real.

“The _eldar_. We do not feel the pain of age and mortality.” Arwen shakes her head and I catch a glimpse of a pointed ear behind the shiny curtain. A gasp escapes me as I’d been hit in the chest. My legs tense my feet shift, and I’m ready to bolt.

“Nonetheless, I am glad you are well now. It has been six days.” Her tone is now gentler than before.

Six days? It’s enough to make me freeze in my disbelief and fear. My back slumps. Six days. I look at my bony hands and fingers wondering how nutrient deficient I had become. Then the thought hit me: _Bront._

“My friend, Bront, is okay? Where is he?” I stumbled over my words in my zeal to get them out. Arwen grabbed my shaking hands and the look on her face told me everything. I suddenly felt faint.

“The bite was deep. The wilds are not always kind.” I could hardly hear her with the blood rushing in my ears. Distantly I hear voice hysteric, rambling, repeating,

“Oh my god, no, no, no, no-“ Arwen scoops me up, smoothing my hair and rubbing circles into my back.

“It is as things go. He died with honor, the way of a Ranger.”

The words were empty to me. I cried so hard I shook all over. I had never known loss of that magnitude and to be fair, I hadn’t known Bront for all that long. But I had watched him in that fatal moment, held his head and sang to him as his comrades patched him together. Watched him gargle on his blood and scream into the sky and smoothed his hair from his sweaty face.

“Where is he now? Where…..where?” Arwen dried my tears and wiped my nose with her long expensive feeling sleeves and gently guided me upright on unstable legs. We begin a slow sniffling walk down across the gardens to another hall. This one just as beautiful and foreboding as the last, but in my heart tainted by what lay ahead.

We enter a wide room and I see Veddal and Uthor. The look at me and rise in greeting, bowing to Arwen before asking about my well-being. I can’t answer them, I only see Bront laying pale on the bed before me. His once kind and understanding face, still.

The tears come back and I try to keep them in, but my sobs escape the hands over my moth in choked gasps and heaves.

He’s dressed in new clothes, fine leggings and tunic with a white three embellishment. His hair was combed and his beard trimmed. They’ve readied him for a funeral.

I can see Veddal’s face screw up in effort to hold back his tears, but Uthor had no such worry. He lets the salty drops run down his ruddy cheeks and get caught in his trimmed mustache. He places his head between his knees and shakes quietly, breathing unevenly.

As I try to get my hiccups under control, Veddal reaches to me and wraps me in a hug. The familiar scent of pine and spearmint causes me calms me in a way that Arwen couldn’t. I feel my chest begin to loosen, but a sharp twang remains in right between my breasts. My head pounds with stress and a tiredness more encompassing than the weariness I felt from traveling.

I step back from Veddal and look at Bront once more. I don’t know what the burial customs for him would be, but I need to give him a proper send off.

“We will put him on the pyre, as the sun sets.” Uthor speaks, his voice low and raw.

“And we will sing his lament.” Arwen sets a dainty hand on my shoulder. I turn slightly to look at her. Her beauty calms me, alienates me, and makes me more sure and confused about myself. I swallow hard.

“I would like to give him a … lament as well.”

The word sounds awkward on my tongue and it sounds to me like the words are from someone else. I’m distantly aware that I’m drifting off again, and I can only give a vague hope that my body is able to function on auto-pilot.

“We would be honored.” Veddal speaks for the men of the company. My face stretches into a contorted mess of a smile, but my eyes look through him. I cannot string together a sentence no matter how hard the voice in the back of my head wants to, yet I cannot feel any urgency to listen to it.

Something in my face must have alarmed Arwen because I hear rapid fire Liquid Language between her and Veddal. Idly I recognize that she’s leading me out of the room. I’m walking across the courtyard, down the hall. It’s an eternity but simultaneous, and it’s a special kind of agony.

The next morning the events of the previous day rush through my mind as soon as I wake. I feel shame and embarrassment curl through my stomach making me ill. The sun is barely over the horizon and Imladris is beautiful, but I can appreciate none of it.

A quick rap at the door gives me just enough time to whip my head around before the same woman from days before enters my room with a plate of food and a jug of water. My stomach rumbkes loudly as the scent of fresh baked bread and food wash over me, and I feel a warmness in my cheeks for the second time in as many days.

“Mae Govannen.” The woman smiles at me. I squint my eyes and peer at her ears in a way that was impossible not to notice, looking to see behind the sides of her dark brown tresses. She understands and sets the tray down and pushes her hair behind her ears. They’re pointed, as I suspected. In a city full of beautiful immortal creatures I’ve wet myself, cried to the point of dry heaving, sweat several gallons, and ruined several set of linens.

“Elleth.” She says to me, pointing to herself. I give a weak self-depreciating smile and point to myself,

“Juno.”

She shakes her head, but in patient way.

“Elleth,” She again points to herself. Then she points to me, “Daughter of Man.”

Understanding flows through me and I perk up immediately. I may not have supernatural beauty, but I have a passion for learning. The prospect of learning a new language, especially one as beautiful as the Liquid Language fills me with joy.

“Lithiriel.” She says and points at herself.

“Juno.” I say back, pointing at myself and giving a real smile this time.

“Mae Govannen Juno.”

“Mae Govannen, Lithiriel.” It must be a greeting, I rationalize as I repeat it. The look Lithiriel gives me is as radiant as the sun, and it her makes her honey eyes dance with delight. She holds me under the same spell Arewn had, and I find myself grinning uncontrollably as Lithriel brings over the tray, pointing at things and naming them.

It provides a pleasant distraction from the impending funeral for Bront. I badger relentlessly to figure out how to apologize in the Liquid Language, which I now knew to be called Sindarin. I then proceeded to stumble out a horrible blend of Common and Sindarin in the form of an apology, for having to clean up after my mess as though I were an infant. Thankfully Lithiriel finds my apology both genuine and hilarious, and painstakingly teaches me enough so I can understand that she’s a healers apprentice and has taken care of many rangers in her life. My urination and sweat was perhaps the least gross thing she has dealt with .

Things were progressing well. In a few short hours we had shared breakfast (after I made it clear that I couldn’t eat it all and wouldn’t accept no for an answer), gone over fruits, colors, body parts, and miscellanea, before I was rudely drawn back to reality.

A soft knock at the door sounds and my and Lithiriel’s chuckles died away. The door opens and another willowy dark haired ellith steps in. She carried a trailing black dress and black silken slippers. The sight sobers me and I being to play with my hands.

“Mae govvanen.” The elleth begins and the rest is too foreign and rapid for me to catch. She must see my blank star and makes her words slower and simpler. All I can understand is she wants me to wear the black dress draped over her forearm. A universal sign of mourning. I nod and rise from the bed.

“I’ll help.” Lithiriel tells me as I grab the mourning garments. I feel that arguing with her may be a faux pas, so I only give her my thanks. The new elleth, who swiftly exchanges delayed introductions with e, and who I now know as Bereth, offers to do my hair.

Getting an old fashioned dress buttoned and my hair done up should make me feel like a princess, but the thought of indulging in a childhood fantasy make me sick to my stomach. I’m in the home of a generous, hereto unseen man that had actively seen to my well being, sent food and attendants, and was now graciously clothing me in thoughtful garments so I can send of a friend who gave his life to get me here

My darkening mood is infectious and Lithiriel and Bereth become quitter and more careful in their handling. I suppose it’s for the best, as my emotions are almost too turbulent for me to be near people.

A soft word from Lithiriel shakes me from my mind and has me look down. The funeral dress had been made for someone heavier than I, so much in fact, that I had not felt the corset back being laced up. It, like the other garments here, is made of an alien material that has the feel of silk, but remains matte in the glittering sunlight. It’s chest area, much like the simple dresses I had worn at the inn, is baggy and unflattering.

In short, it hangs limply off of my emaciated frame despite its obviously masterful craftsmanship, which only serves to further darken my mood. Perhaps it would be Arwen and Lithiriel sending _me _off next.

There’s no mirror in the spartan room, thus is have no idea what I look like beyond my own view. I run my hands over a smooth but bulging crown of braids, some with three strands, some with more. It must be intricate and lovely, but in this moment it feels like a waste.

“Women of Gondor.” Lithiriel adds helpfully noticing my fingers tracing my head. I assume she means that Gondor is a place, with humans, and this is how they wear their hair when they mourn. Either that or the Sindarin words for grieve was gondor, which seemed unlikely with its strong consonants. Nevertheless, I nod at the both of them in thanks.

Gently I place on and lace up the proffered silver slippers which are only slightly too small for me, but with the beaten and calloused state of my feet I hardly notice. However, I am pleased to note my nails had been trimmed sometime between my dance with death and the present. My perpetual embarrassment of not being able to attend to basic hygienic practices doesn’t nearly outweigh my thankfulness.

“Let’s do this.” My meaning is clear despite the English, and Bereth and Lithiriel escort me from my room through gardens and out a different path to a gorgeous clearing on the outskirts of the valley. The walk itself was only around ten minutes or so with our brisk pace in the chill of the coming dusk. The setting sun glisten on the waterfalls in the distance, foreign birds chirp enchantingly in the trees and dragonflies skitter through the air drunk on the sweet scent of rose and gardenia that seems to pepper every walkway.

I see them, the party of rangers. They stand sober and silhouetted by the dying light down east, looking strong but tired. Their strength, no matter how dimmed, puts starch in my high color and steel in my spine that I haven’t felt in so very long. ‘_It’s a purpose.’_

As I step forward to join them, I assure my escorts I can find my way back. I hear steps behind me, coming ever close, and I turn to see Arwen gliding forward in a dress of pure white starlight. She glows under the night sky and I give her a peaceful smile. For a moment, as I look at her, all is right; despite my fallen friend, everything is going to be alright. Beside her is a man, an ellon, looking just as regal as her, possibly more so, reeking of power and only showing a fraction of her radiance, but nonetheless radiating his own special aura. An aura I cannot identify. Their light works together to make a blanket of comfort and it is what is most needed in this situation.

The party, it seems, feels the same as the mood inexplicably lightens and the night less claustrophobic. Arwen’s eyes don’t sparkle with mirth tonight, and rightfully so, but rather with a reality and inner light that spills onto her luminous cheeks. She is ethereal and queenly, and in her strength we find a spot of light and peace.

We reach the Rangers at the same time, her long gait compensating for the difference in distance. Though I can no longer truly notice the company nor Arwen any longer. Instead I can only see the still body of Bront. He looks stone cold and beautiful in the harsh light of the moon. There is peace here, but it is the still, unnatural kind of peace. The kind that settles into you and will not leave even when the world around you demands urgency.

Veddal begins to recite a long and epic rite in Common. The cadence is too lilting and unfamiliar to my untrained ears so I cannot understand yet I lose myself in his voice. My eyes trace Bront’s prone form, his strong jaw and proud nose. I miss a man who I had only known for days, it cuts me far too deep, but my heart doesn’t follow the logic.

I would never see those baby blues again, and would never hear that joyful tenor, bit his brothers and I would live onward.

It goes on as such: ranger after ranger step forward and speak their peace. Some have somber stories and battles and lifesaving heroic tales. Others have light hearted tales of a smiling man and his good nature. Belatedly I realize there are tears running down my cheeks. I have no story to tell.

The turn falls to a ranger whom I had hardly heard a word from on our fateful odyssey. He’s a tall, thin, lanky man, with a patchy blond beard and shoulder length hair. He beings a soft, smooth song in a deep bass that doesn’t quite match his visage. Only the flint in his eyes makes it believable. A few other men join in what seems to be the chorus and I feel more like an outsider than I ever have.

The men fall silent and Arwen beings to recite a prayer of her own in a language that sounds similar to Sindarin, but commands an antiquity and oldness that I have never before experienced. It’s full of reverence and repetition, and every other cycle the ellon would join in with perfect harmony. It reminds me of a catholic mass, full of thanks and subservience, and the joy of blessings. It fills me with tranquility, emboldening me to now look upon Bront’s face without guilt.

When Arwen and her companion are finished, the sun is disappeared completely, and the stars shine brightly. I breathe deeply and let the words come forth, sending Bront off in the only way I know how to in this place:

I never knew of green leaves

Or just how green the green could be

I never knew of blue skies

Or how the sky could light your eyes

I never knew of black nights

Or that the black could take a life

So the stars shine

But the light is faint

I’m left behind

A worldly fate

The sun will rise on tired tides

I never knew I’d miss you so

Or that the black could take your life

My poem is short, but I feel there is nothing left to say. The Rangers have extolled Bront’s virtues, Arwen has recounted his blessings and spoke with the gods of this world. What more could I possibly give than a poem that touched my soul as I wrote it? It leaves us on a somber note, but one that feels human and right. It seemed foreboding almost, and I shiver, but cannot bring myself to dwell on it further.

The men have now gathered closely around Bront, and I can see them readying themselves to carry him to the pyre in the short distance. I want no part in this portion of the funeral. It seems too private, too personal, than what I’d just been a part of. There is no part of me that can stomach the sight of a burning man, dead or not.

The ellon who is with Arwen steps forward to help the men, but Arwen seems to be of my same mind as we both make haste from the clearing after clumsy curtsies and tearful smiles (at least on my part). We both have no wish to smell burning flesh. I can only hope the wind carries the smoke away from them.

The night feels alive, and I look at the still crystalline spheres above me. There’s a buzz on my skin, electric almost, nothing like I have ever felt before. I cannot ignore it.

“Do you feel that?” I ask Arwen, unable to keep the wonder out of my voice.

“Yes, of course. It is the blessing of Elbereth.” Arwen is looking at me with her own brand of wonderment.

“Who’s Elbereth? A god of yours?” I’m careful to keep my tone from being derisive, but I can’t believe what she’s telling me. It’s probably just adrenaline and we’re both overreacting.

We’ve stopped in a garden, one of many in Imladris. There are eldar present, some talking quietly amongst themselves, some caressing or even talking to the blossoms and blooms. They look and me and Arwen curiously, and some even give a small reverent nod or bow. I shake them off and focus on Arwen once more.

“She is the goddess of the stars. She is the stars. Through her all light in Arda shines. She gives her children power when we need it most, when we cannot bear the worldly toils that life brings. Through her we have strength.”

I’m silent for a long moment. The thought that a goddess of this place is tangible _(because goddamnit I know what I felt and oh my god what is happening right now?) _is such a strange and terrifying thought. Maybe coming here wasn’t an accident, maybe I was meant to run into the forest and never return. I still feel the buzz of my skin and the supernatural peace, which could only be supernatural as I hadn’t even experienced a jump in my heart beat _(but oh god am I scared)_. The serenity at the funeral is now suspicious, the peace I know we all felt seems gross.

As if reading my mind, Arwen grabs my hands in hers,

“The Valar give us strength when we most need it. Through them,, all things are possible. You will still grieve the memory of Sir Bront, but it will not consume you. And for that we rejoice.”

I look down at our hands. Next to my gnarled nail beds and bony knuckles, her luminescence is striking. She looks angelic in a world of magic and gods. I look into her eyes helplessly, desperately.

“I can’t do this Arwen, I don’t want to. I want to go home.” I’m whispering, almost whimpering.

She replies with an oldness I had never seen on her face, a hardness that I had not known she’s capable of, and it scares me more than a goddess’s presence ever could;

“This is your home, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The past months have been very difficult. I lost a family member, I've been seriously financially unstable (and faced serious moral dilemmas because of it, you can imagine), and have failed not one, but TWO classes. I can go on and on, but that's why I go to therapy (and I'm so blessed my university has mental health coverage). I want to apologize, but honestly, i had to put myself first and i know ya'll will understand this. Now I’m in the right space where this won’t feel like a chore. 
> 
> I've had these written for a while now, but physically getting out my notebook and transferring my written word to Word was impossible until tonight. I don't know what it was. I've been super into the Star Wars fandom, and I was worried I lost all interest in this fic, and then on a whim picked up my purple spiral and was like "ah yes, Juno." and yeah. 
> 
> Thank you all for your positive comments and love, and i hope i didn’t lose all of you.


	4. Interlude: Down the Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno Pryor gets Low™

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE see the notes at the end for triggers.

“_This is your home now.” _

I had never imagined something so ugly coming from such a beautiful creature’s lips. Hours later and I can hardly wrap my mind around the notion of never seeing mu family and friends again.

On some level I’ve been hoping that this is a cruel fever dream, and acting accordingly my mind had taken to keeping me in a dream like state: just enough detachment to stay calm. The inn, the journey to Imladris – it’s all surreal.

But now, _now?_

There’s a buzzing in my bones, a fire in my chest that warmed my cold hands and freezing legs. It ignites my gut and it _burns_. I’m desperate for it to calm, for the pain to stop. I hadn’t asked for any of this: to walk around as a sack of bones, to lose a friend, to be the only one who could read _Latin and Jesus Christ this was ridiculous_.

My chest constricts and I can see my heart beating beneath my shirt. Something is rising to the surface and it’s gross and guttural. A scream tears from my throat and rips my throat on its way out. The sting of its rawness flies though my nose and head. I can’t be anything but this horrible sounds, this wounded soul, this clueless animal.

There’s no way out, there is only the dark when I close my eyes and the light of the _terrible, terrible _stars when I open them. The scream has tapered but in it’s wake leaves ugly sobs from my chest. Tears and snot paint my cheeks and chin, dripping mockingly, tickling my neck and coating my chest in a sick parody of release.

I heave and struggle for air, desperate to not succumb to an ultimate black. Uncaring if the strangers and stars above hear plea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Implied breakdown/feelings of loneliness, depression, panic/anxiety attack. 
> 
> PLEASE do not read if this will trigger you, it is not integral to the plot. 
> 
> This is drawn heavily on my experience, but is still unique to Juno.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first LoTR fic, and I'm aware that Tolkien is rolling in his grave, but I'm having a very fun time writing this. Please be gentle! Feedback is appreciated.


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